The Turning
by Thanatos12
Summary: A Short Story (No nudity, violence, sex. Dark themes. Depressing.)


The Turning  
  
[Ok people, this is the deal. All characters created by Marvel are sole property of, yep you guessed it, Marvel. I do not claim ownership for any characters, except Jack Brigham. He's mine. I mad him. Minemineminemine. Anyways, just a short story. Very short. A test, you could say. Nothing really bad in it. No sex, nudity, or even extreme violence. All that good fun stuff comes later. So if you like it, let me know. PLEASE. I NEED feedback. I thrive on it. Comments? Questions? Constructive criticism? All good. Flaming? Don't make me borrow a thunderbolt from Zeus. You wouldn't like it. Also, email me if you are interested in Role-Playing out a fantasy, or any kind of interaction with a comic-book, video-game, or anime character. Cya later! -.o ]  
  
A twitch. Movement. The memories are faded, but never gone. They are always there, just like the pain inside. Burning, roaring, tearing at his soul, threatening to consume him at any given moment, like a hurricane. He must move with it. Stay in the eye. Eyes. That brings the man more memories, but this time more recent. His eyelids flutter, then open. There is nothing. Everything is black. It scares him, and he panics. Arms flail, legs kick with the strength of unreasoning fear. A sharp pain spears his arm, as the I.V. rips from his flesh, a thin trail of blood seeping out. Something in his nose, which he pulls out, causing more pain, but it feels like nothing to him. He cannot see.   
  
Jack Brigham was, once upon a time, a soldier. He was a brave, honorable, patriotic man. He fought for his country, and paid the price for it. Then he was experimented on by the same government, until he escaped. Hope had long died within him, fading with the atrocities of war. Now, Jack suffered even greater. Falling out of the hospital bed, he landed on the smooth tile hard, jaw cracking against the surface. A metallic taste of blood. Stumbling, feeling blindly, trying to force other senses to work, to compensate for the loss of sight, but it was no use. He was not born this way. Too long had he relied on his eyes, and now he was lost without them. Lost in a vast sea of never-ending blackness.   
  
Somehow, he felt his way to the door, perhaps by sheer luck, there was a discarded broom, which his hands grasped, running along the smooth wooden pole. At the end, he touched the rigid bristles, and then slammed it down onto the ground, breaking off the tip. A tapping was heard through those empty halls, the wooden butt of the pole hitting the ground, broken end held in hand. That was the way he made his way around, to the stares of others, horror unseen on their faces. Eventually, someone led him to his room, where he was helped to shower, and shave.   
  
Silence reigned around him, following his awakening. Avoidance was common around him, the feeling of pity thick in everyone's voice, those who would even talk to him. He hated it, that feeling. He knew the truth, deep down inside. They wished that he would just disappear. So he did.   
  
Little by little, his wardrobe and clothing disappeared. Personal things absent from his room. He was no longer able to teach, and the Professor had discharged him from all responsibilities. Other than that, Xavier refused to speak to this man. Jack hated him for it. One December morning, Jack was gone. No notes, no trace of struggle. His bed was neatly made, the room appeared as if no one had ever lived there at all.   
  
Jack moved into New York City. He had purpose in mind, and intelligence enough to complete his intent. Everyday, he would wander the streets, and everyday, his ears would pick up the sounds of struggles, fights breaking out. He rushed to them, but was disappointed upon arriving there, stumbling, blind. He was seeking something in these fights, but not something which was given. Until that day.   
  
It was normal, like all the rest. And then he heard that familiar sound, a commotion of noises. Someone's fist hitting another. Then he heard something that made his hand quiver. The sound of brick breaking, and a groan, followed by said owner of that groan climbing to his feet. Today was the day.Jack hurried towards the noise, a beaten wooden stick as a cane. In the shadows, he waited. Listening, smelling, tasting the air. He was right. It was Him.   
  
Jack had gathered what information he could about Him. Blonde hair, blue eyes. He had built a picture in his mind. Blue outfit, probably spandex or something. Red boots. Wings on the face mask. And colors that would never run, never fade. Red, white, and blue. His name. Steve Rogers. But everyone calls him........Captain America.   
  
Jack followed him, hiding in the shadows as best he could. He could tell by the feeling on his skin, the lack of that barest hint of sun. Followed him through the city. From several different brawls and muggings and attempted rapes. Everywhere, Jack was right behind him. And then it was night. Time to make a move. He followed Captain America up a building, to the top roof. Silence, and then Jack could hear a faint breathing. Deep and powerful, to supposedly match this man's heart. It would be tested tonight.   
  
"Why are you following me, and who are you?" the Capt. asked. His voice matched perfectly Jack's mental image. Strong, unfaltering. "I'm a man. It doesn't matter who or what else I am. I am a soldier, like you, Steve." The other man's breath catches for a moment, as his keen eyes pierce the darkness. Hollow sockets, where eyes once were held. Deep scars along his head and face, down into his neck. "Why are you following me. What is it that you want? I will try to help you in some way, if possible. What is your name?" His voice holds that same sound of pity, and in that pity, Jack both knows that he is already losing.   
  
"My name is....Jack. Captain America, I want you to kill me. I beg you, end my pain." Captain turns his head, and that pity is mixed with something else. Rejection. "Why would you want me to do that? Why would you ask me to do that?" And Jack knows, now without a doubt, that he has failed. "Because. You and I are soldiers, both of us. That never ends. We will always share that, you and I. The pain.....never goes away. It haunts me, eating me. I have nothing left, Steve. It must end."   
  
He turns away, already knowing the words that come from Captain America's lips. "I can't do that. I can't......and I'm sorry." Jack says softly, sadly, "You weren't in that war. You don't know what it was like. And people love you for what you did, all those years back. In World War Two. But me, I got shafted, Cap. When I came home, people hated me. Spit on me. That's all right, Cap. You can't do it, but somebody will. Someone has to." Jack makes his way back down the building, stick tapping before him, feeling out the area. He stumbles into things, every now and then.   
  
But the night is not through with him. The great patriot was not the only man that Jack has been researching. There are others, and one of them will grant Jack's request, for a swift, clean end to everything. Rain begins to fall, dousing Jack with droplets of water, running off the smooth expanse of his bald head. Dripping from his nose and chin. He doesn't care. The night is not done with him.   
  
He tracks down his greatest hope. Captain had been his first choice, because to be laid to rest by such a man would have been an honor. Jack doesn't deserve such an honor. So Jack goes to a man as mentally destroyed as he is. Frank Castle. The Punisher. It is much easier to find him. The sound of bullets and explosions are not hard to follow. Which brings him to a van. Jack stands in the street, waiting for Frank, who comes back to the van, once his mission is finished.   
  
Only one of the men sees the other. Jack is blind, after all. Frank steps into the street with Jack, cold, hard eyes scrutinizing this man. Eyes gone, torn from the head. Scars. Heavy coat, falling to the knees. He might have a gun in there. Frank's hand tightens around the pistol he is holding, but the silence is broken by Jack.   
  
"Do it. I beg you, kill me where I stand, Frank. I deserve it. I've murdered countless in war. I'm a wanted man, a criminal. You kill criminals, don't you, Frank? Kill me." That hand holding the gun raises, sighting down the barrel. Finger tightens on the trigger, a hair's breath from taking this man's life. "........" "........" Neither speaks a word. The time has come. Jack is only glad that it is to be ended. A quick shattering of the skull, and he will feel nothing.   
  
Frank's hand begins to tremble in the rain, and the gun lowers to point at the ground. In this man, begging him for death, he can see something. A soldier. He turns his head, and the rain hides Frank Castle's shame. Jack turns away without another word. The heros, for all their understanding and wisdom, cannot do for him what one Vietnamese soldier would do in a heartbeat. The enemy.   
  
So Jack goes to his last ember of hope. Eric Magnus Lensherr. A man known by all, and feared by all. He is a mutant terrorist, but he believes in his own words. He has lived through the atrocities of the Nazi death camps. He will understand Jack's pain. The never-ending torrent of hurt. Jack makes his way into a building. Unmarked, it is seemingly empty, but the elevator works, as he presses the buttons, sending him to the top. Jack steps out, and meets with the man who will end his life.   
  
Words exchanged, too many to remember, and then Jack finds himself on the recieving end of a bargain. This man, Magneto, will kill him, quickly, quietly, swiftly, and without pain. But only in return for a year employed under his rule. Jack agrees. A year. What is such a small amount of time? What can Jack do anyways? He cannot see, cannot fight. He cannot fry an egg, nor change a lightbulb. He is utterly worthless. But a year he will wait. At the end of that alotted time, Magnus will ask him again. And Jack will say the same thing. And then......nothing. 


End file.
